


in want of a wife

by openmouthwideeye



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:06:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12760899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: The new Mr. and Mrs. Montague are quite besotted with each other. If only they were aware of it.





	in want of a wife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erinn_bedford](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinn_bedford/gifts).



> Written for the talented fallinfor-youreyes (aka erinn_bedford) based on the tumblr prompt: "routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they're doing"

“That is the second time your husband has interrupted us,” Isabella noted once the door closed behind Lieutenant Montague, leaving the ladies in the quiet solitude of the visiting parlor. Stirring sugar into her tea, she discarding the spoon with the faint chime of silver on fine bone china. “Indeed, were I not long acquainted with him, I might think he took objection to our tête-à-tête.”

Rosaline took a sip of tea, but it was not enough to conceal her exasperation. “It is no more than boredom, I assure you. Shut up in this house with no soldiers, no sabers, and no horses? I do not know why he stays, truth to tell.”

“Do you not?”

She graced her friend with a look of such frank bewilderment that, upon seeing it, a soft smile stole Isabella’s air of mischief.

“It does my heart good to see that you and your husband have become so well acquainted in my absence.”

Tea sloshed over the rim of Rosaline’s cup, pooling in its saucer, which quickly found a home on the table, so as not to stain her muslin.

“Well acquainted?” she repeated with no small incredulity.

It was true that, but a moment ago, Benvolio had bowed his way out of the parlor, having interrupted them on some thin pretext, kissing his wife’s proffered hand as if the whole of Verona stood by, ready to call counterfeit on this farce of a love match. He had turned at the door as if reluctant to leave—a prudent gesture with Isabella freshly back from town and in frequent confidence of Verona’s biggest gossipmongers—before absenting their company so quickly that, some months ago, she would have deemed him unspeakably rude.

In truth, the new Lieutenant and Mrs. Montague had become quite adept at feigning affection, both in company and the relative privacy of their home; but if anyone might have seen through the ruse, she expected it of Isabella.

Not so. Isabella sipped her tea, pretending that her hum was in appreciation of its flavor, and fooling Rosaline not for an instant. Sweet and leading, the sound carried an undercurrent of archness tailored to make her spill her secrets.

“Our neighbors are less likely to call the constable, suspecting murder,” she allowed, “but I’d hardly call us amiable.”

“I’d hardly call you _amiable_ either.”

Rosaline could not help her reaction: a scoff that belied her good breeding, and was covered ill by the belated clearing of her throat. “Your time abroad has made you imaginative,” she said wryly, “but pray, save fancies of that sort for my sister.”

“Oh, come, Mrs. Montague,” said Isabella, as if they had not been the most intimate of friends since childhood, “there’s no need to play coy. When I left for Venice, you could scarcely speak of the man without shocking half the ton with the sharpness of your tongue. And yet here you are, two months wed, and as agreeable as ever I saw you.”

She could not deny it, but the supposition that her husband had any bearing on her complexion seemed too ridiculous a notion to entertain.

“It is your company, and not his, that lifts my spirits.” Leaning forward as if to share a confidence, she clasped her friend’s hand and added, “If only you did not go on with such uncharacteristic foolishness, I would be pleased to share tea with you every afternoon.”

Isabella laughed, turning her hand to curl her fingers around Rosaline’s. “I have missed you, Rosaline.”

“And I you. Now,” she said brightly, redirecting the conversation as neatly as she could, “tell me of your time in Venice.”

Isabella allowed herself to be diverted. For a time they talked of little else besides the politics of court, a subject which interested Isabella far more than the gossip of town or the fashions from Milan. Rosaline, for her part, cared for politics only insofar as they absorbed Mr. Montague, her husband’s odious uncle, whose recent absence had lifted a cloud of misery from the estate.

A rap of knuckles echoed through the door, startling her. Setting down her tea, she smoothed her muslin gown and called, “Come in.” And if her tone did not _quite_ befit her station, well, that could hardly be helped when she had been scrubbing pots not a twelvemonth since.

Benvolio poked his head around the door, and Rosaline sighed in exasperation. “Ben—-Lieutenant Montague, surely the ledgers can wait for a time when I am not entertaining.”

Ignoring her objection, he strode into the room, bowing his head quite respectfully at Miss Isabella Prince, and smiling at his wife in a way that was decidedly less so.

“Pardon the interruption, Beloved, but have you not missed me? I am told many a newly married woman will sigh her days away for want of her husband’s company.”

Rosaline hummed in the back of her throat, a veneer of indifference to match his smug mien. “Was it your cousin who told you such an egregious falsehood?”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged as if he could not recall, but amusement proved him false. Their cousins’ foolhardy elopement had authored their ill-fated union, but over time familial fondness had overcome their frustrations, and now they spoke of it together quite freely.

“That aside, I mislaid a rather important letter from a superior officer. Have you seen it?”

Indeed she had, as he had shared its contents with her several hours past. She allowed him the charade, as it was hardly suitable for officers to speak of war with their wives over breakfast.

Upon her discovery of the letter in question, she had stowed it beneath the tea tray. She retrieved it now, and the rakish slant of his smile yielded to genuine gratitude. His fingers closed around hers on the letter, and her chin tilted slantways on habit, presenting her cheek to him. The scratch of his beard had become so familiar as to be unremarkable, but his thanks, murmured against her skin, stirred something wholly unexpected within her.

Hastily dropping the letter, she tucked her chin to escape the sensation and only succeeded in redirecting his lips from her cheek to her ear. Her husband’s surprised laugh reverberated across the delicate skin there— _through_ it, in truth, racing down her spine to curl into her stomach, purring with contentment like a cat before the hearth.

Reaching for her teacup, Rosaline spooned in a generous helping of sugar, stirring vigorously, until at last Benvolio retreated to a more respectable distance.

He inclined his head. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Montague, Miss Prince.”

His wife, spooning more sugar into her tea, made no response, but her friend made up for her lack of decorum.

“It has been good to see you again so soon, Lieutenant Montague,” she said quite politely. “Perhaps when next you call on us, you might bring a fresh pot of tea. I believe Rosaline has quite ruined hers.”

Frowning at the galaxy of crystals in her cup, he muttered, “I will fetch a servant.”

His head bobbed forward, though it was not present in the moment; he stopped short when his wife’s knuckles did not present themselves for a kiss, and, with furrowed brow, adapted the motion into a short bow before repairing to another part of the house.

Isabella watched him go with a melancholy air. “Few of us can hope for love to blossom with the husbands our families choose for us.”

Rosaline settled her teacup behind the pot, where she might not sip it accidentally. Her fingers ached from her tight grip on the china; she slipped them into her lap, massaging them discreetly.

“At last you speak sensibly.”

Her friend recovered her good humor quite suddenly. “One of us must.”

“Fear not,” Rosaline said, “I am lost, but you may yet be free of the whims of gentlemen. Do not let your brother dissuade you from spinsterhood.”

Presently, the maid arrived with fresh tea, and soon earlier conversations were forgotten. Benvolio did not avail himself of their company again, but between the pleasure of lively conversation and her vexation over the knowing smile that had taken up residence on Isabella's face, Rosaline found herself much too preoccupied to care.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for indulging this bit of fluff. Feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
